


One Step Too Far

by Xela



Category: Psych
Genre: Gun Kink, M/M, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-28
Updated: 2008-07-28
Packaged: 2017-10-14 13:26:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xela/pseuds/Xela
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Shawn feels the cold barrel of a gun pressed to his temple, he thinks he may have gone too far.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Step Too Far

When Sawn feels the cold barrel of a gun pressed to his temple, he thinks he may have gone too far.

“Shawn Spencer. Turn around.” Shawn swallows and does as instructed. The gun doesn't move but trails over Shawn's skin, resting right between his eyes. His captor does not look happy, face schooled into a disdainful sneer. Shawn searches for something to say, but for once his rapier wit fails him. This isn't one of his contrived situations, people playing to his tune as he manipulates them across the chess board of his life.

This? Wholly unexpected.

“You've caused quite a few problems for me, Mr. Spencer.” The gun traces a path from the center of Shawn's forehead to underneath his eye. He manages a weak smile and opens his mouth to respond, but he's suddenly choking on the gun, shoved to the back of his throat. He tries to pull away, but the man steps up into him and forces him back into the wall. There's no where for him to go.

“Did I say you could talk?” The man's tone is deceptively pleasant, almost sounding genuinely curious. Shawn breaths through his nose, eyes crossed as he looks at the part of the barrel still visible. He can taste the metallic flavor of steel and gunpowder where his tongue rubs against the smooth metal. The man's face contorts with curiosity, as scarily mild as his tone of voice, and Shawn feels a rush of fear as the gun slowly slides further down his throat. Shawn takes what he can until his body rebels and he chokes. The gunman pulls back just enough so Shawn isn't gagging; his hand is brushing against Shawn's lips the gun's so far in.

“Well that's encouraging.” The man steps closer, knees knocking into Shawn's. “Suck.” It takes Shawn a minute to process the terse command. The man slides the gun in a little farther in warning and Shawn's lips wrap around the dark metal without his express permission. Apparently his instinct for survival overrides his pride.

Shawn tries to maintain eye contact with the gunman, but it's a lost cause. His eyes are too bright, too piercing. They see far too much.

“I think you're enjoying this, Mr. Spencer.” Like that. A hand brushes against the bulge in Shawn's pants and _fuck._ His teeth clack against the gun's barrel as his jaw tenses, and the man's in Shawn's face. “If you just put teeth marks on my weapon...” The slow smile is the most terrifying expression he's worn yet. “Actually, that could be fun. Let's check.”

The barrel is shiny with Shawn's spit. The gunman pulls it out one inch at a time and Shawn can feel the dips and grooves of the barrel.

“You're out of luck, Mr. Spencer. Look what I found.” Shawn looks down at the gun. There's not a mark on it. “I'll give you a chance to make it up to me.” Shawn meets his gaze, knows exactly what the man wants. He can feel it pressing into his thigh, hot and heavy. Slowly, face flushing, Shawn sinks to his knees. He's still trapped against the wall by the man's bigger body, so his knees spread wide to accommodate the other man's legs. He feels vulnerable and exposed, particularly when the man shifts and his leg is pressed right against Shawn's crotch.

Shawn glances up, but the guman only looks down at him with that same expression of mild curiosity, like he's waiting to see what Shawn will do. As if Sawn has a choice in this situation and is going to _surprise_ him.

Well. Shawn's good with surprises.

He's also good a blowjobs, and has a few tricks this guy hasn't seen yet. He pulls them all out, one after the other. Since he seems so enamored with the way the gun disappeared down Shawn's throat, Shawn sucks him all the way down in one long swallow. He's prepared for the involuntary thrust, meets it and holds the man's hips steady. Shawn can feel the gun against his head, the hand that holds it tangling in his hair. The man's other hand is pressed against the wall for support.

Shawn pulls back and dives down, muscles loose and easy. His voice is going to be a deep, husky reminder of this encounter for days to come. He pulls back and suctions hard on the tip, tongue darting across the sensitive glans and into the slit rapid-fast. That man's breathing is ragged and strained, but it stops on a loud inhale when Shawn presses his teeth right along the ridged head. The man makes no move to stop him, the gun isn't raised in warning, and Shawn can feel his captor's fluttering pulse through his cock. They both pause, waiting to see what Shawn will do.

Shawn slowly rolls down the shaft, his teeth scraping dangerously as he works his way down. His tongue's busy dancing over the hot flesh, laving away the scrape of sharp canines and hard surfaces. When he's done he rolls back up, teeth still in play. He's considering doing it again, because he can, but the man above him has pulled enough of his brain back together to give him a warning growl.

Shawn loosens his hold of the gunman's hips—there will be bruises as reminders in the morning, he's made sure of it—and wraps a hand around the spit-slick length. He moves his mouth and hand together a couple of times, finding the perfect grip that makes his captor toss his head back and moan aloud, breaking the carefully constructed aura of badass nonchalance.

On the next up stroke, Shawn increases the pressure of his top finger and thumb, keeping the rest of his grip just a little looser. It's like a traveling band of pleasure going up the gunman's cock. He knows where it's headed, where it's going to be, tries to thrust into it quicker but Shawn's in control here, and he's a tease if nothing else.

The way back down is a similar torture. On the next pass, the first and second fingers tighten in alternating rhythms. The grip is already maddeningly perfect and the extra sensations are almost enough to make the gunman's already-precarious orgasm teeter over the edge. But Shawn's not letting that happen until he's done, so he waits. When he's sure this won't be over until he _says_ it's over, a third finger joins in...then a fourth. He's playing his fingers up and down, up and down, driving the man utterly, deliciously mad with lust.

“Shawn!” Shawn smirks and mentally hi-fives himself. He'd told Lassy he wouldn't break character first. Lassy owes him an extra-large pineapple smoothie from Jamba Juice. Carlton makes a wild, desperate sound in his throat and Shawn gets down to business. He reaches behind and slips a finger into Carlton's body after sucking him down and _swallowing_. Lassiter comes with a harsh cry, yanking Shawn's hair in the throes of his orgasm, but that's totally worth seeing Head Detective Carlton Lassiter come unglued above him.

When he's milked Carlton dry, cleaned him up and sucked him through his orgasm, Shawn pulls off with a pop. He watches, amused, as Carlton collapses on the floor without regards to propriety or his wrinkled suit. Shawn relaxes spread-eagle on his belly, head cradled on his arms and panting lightly. He's incredibly hard, but he's a considerate lover so he'll give Carlton another five seconds to recover.

“Is that an approved use of a departmental weapon, Lassy?” Shawn asks when he's regained the power of speech. His voice sounds like sex. The lump beside him grunts something that might be 'Shawn,' but could also be 'fawn,' which means either Carlton's got a thing for poorly-named strippers or a disturbing kink involving prepubescent wildlife. No more Bambi for Carly-poo. “Because I think you'd find a lot of criminals much more manageable if yumphf!”

Carlton slaps a hand over Shawn's (very talented) mouth. “If you don't talk for the next two minutes, I'll take care of you.” He feels Shawn nod underneath his hand, so he takes it away. By two minutes he means thirty seconds, because Shawn _can't_ not talk for two minutes. Ever.

“Hey Carlton,” Shawn stage-whispers not ten seconds later. Lassiter reminds himself that while love isn't enough, Shawn also gives great head, has a fantastic ass, and bought Carlton a gag for Christmas. Carlton ignores him, mentally calculating the best way flip Shawn over, get into his pants, and shut him the hell up. There's something heavy in his hand and Carlton grins. He forgot about the gun.


End file.
